i am a traveller in my soul
by zihna
Summary: Five lives Charles and Erik never lived, and the one they did.


Hi everyone! So this is the first XMFC I wrote, based on a prompt on one of the kink memes (those are really dangerous, by the way. I keep losing hours and hours to them): Five lives Erik and Charles never lived, and then the one they did.

Enjoy!

WARNING: Life II may contain September 11 imagery. If you are triggered by 9/11, please don't read. Thank you!

Disclaimer: Don't own XMFC. Pity.

* * *

><p>i am a traveller in my soul<p>

five lives they never lived

* * *

><p><em>I am a traveller in my soul, <em>_**  
><strong>__And the World is standing still,__**  
><strong>__Counting the steps of Time._

* * *

><p>i. <em>langley, april 1964<em>

His mouth tastes like toothpaste and metal. The CIA suits flank him, two on each side, and he smirks because they're in a building made of steel; if he wanted to, he could kill them all.

But he won't, because that's not how he's going to do this. Mutants are a fledgling race, disorganized, separated. War would destroy them, and Erik won't lose another people. He will protect them, even if it means this, means tolerating their hate, their arrogance, their fear.

They move down the hallways and the metal sings to Erik, sighing, calling to him. He could free Charles in a heartbeat, snatch him away, take him home to Westchester and their fledgling school.

But then the CIA would hunt him, and he has children to worry about now, and what Charles did was—

They stop in front of a locked steel door.

"Put this on," one of the suits says. In his hand there is a helmet made of smooth, shining metal; it calls out to Erik and he stares at it, horrified.

"That's Shaw's," he says, and the numbers carved into his arm seem to burn.

"He can't touch you out here," the suit explains irritably. "His cell keeps him in. But once you're in there he can use all his powers on you. This stops that. We can't have him taking control over you."

"I'm not wearing that," Erik says flatly, and the building shakes a little. The helmet even has that dent in it, from where Erik threw the coin and knocked Shaw over, and then Charles had—

The building shakes harder. The suits twitch, nervous. He doesn't have to be a mind reader to see that they want to lock him up too, and his students, his entire _race_, and anger swells hot and familiar in his gut.

_Maybe Charles is right,_ says a part of him that Shaw—_Herr Doktor_—created. _They hate us. _

_There's always good,_ he says back to it. _There are Nazis_ and _those who fight them._

"Put it on," says the suit. "Or you don't go in."

Erik glares, but he will give in and the suit knows it. "Fine," he bites out, and takes the helmet. The metal hums in his hands and he sees Shaw for a second, so strong and clear he tastes the sea in his mouth and feels the heat of the sun, the grit of the sand, the crack of the gun and missiles—

He puts the helmet on and feels something heavy shake in his gut, and the suit smiles, cold and cruel and satisfied, a Nazi of his own little world.

Erik hates them all.

"You have ten minutes," says the suit, and he opens the cold steel  
>door.<p>

Charles sits at a simple table in the middle and he smiles when he sees Erik. His eyes are soft and sad and gentle, such a contrast to before at the beach that Erik's hands go weak and he almost does blow a hole in the wall and take Charles with him.

"My friend," says Charles. "You came."'

Erik dips his head and the helmet feels strange. Charles looks at it oddly, his face dark and unreadable.

"They wouldn't let me in without it," Erik feels compelled to explain.

Charles nods. "My telepathy can't get out of this room," he says quietly, and his eyes go hard as the door swishes shut. "But once someone's in here, they're mine."

Erik looks at him and he's _sad_for a moment, overwhelmingly sad, and Charles must pick up on it because he smiles and waves a dismissive hand.

"I wouldn't hurt you like that," Charles says. "Never, do you understand?"

Erik smiles sadly because he _does_, he really fucking does. "Come back with me," he says, instead of _oh but you are, you're hurting me, the kids, all of us with this useless vendetta, with this war you cannot win._"Please. Xavier's Academy sounds so much better than Lehnsherr's."

Charles laughs a little. "How is the school going?" He doesn't answer the question, Erik notices, and he hides the way his heart dies, just a little.

"Good," he says instead, thinking of the little ones and the kids who have somehow grown, these last few months, and aren't really kids anymore. "We've found some new mutants. It's starting to look like a proper school."

"That's good," Charles says, almost wistfully, and Erik remembers long nights of chess and scotch and dream of the future, their future, and he hates how it all went away.

_They miss you,_ Erik doesn't say. _They call me Professor Mags now because little Ororo doesn't want to say Magneto. Sean stopped asking about you two months ago and Raven still sleeps in your room. Hank is thinking about leaving us and Alex makes sure I eat at least twice a day. Moira's been missing for a year now; the kids think she's been killed. They're scared. I need you. I don't know if I can do this on my own._

"They think you'll take over me," he says suddenly instead of all these little things. "Force me to use my power to break you out. That's why they're making me wear the helmet."

Charles looks away and Cuba swells between them.

"Would you?" Erik asks softly.

Charles doesn't answer.

"Would you, Charles?"

Charles looks him in the eye and his eyes are the color of the Cuban skies. "I did it once," he says bitterly. "Who's to say I won't again?"

Erik bows his head. "My friend," he says heavily.

"Stay," says Charles, reaching out and grabbing his hand. "Please. Stay with me. Think of what we could do, together. We could make the world safe for our people. Please, Erik. _We want the same thing."_

Erik is, for the first and final time, grateful for Shaw's helmet because Charles will never hear his heart crack in two.

"Oh my dear friend," Erik says, as he turns to go. "No we do not."

"Erik!" Charles stands, sharp and sudden and there's fire in his eyes. "Wait."

Erik stops by the door and his eyes are closed.

"I'm sorry," Charles says, barely louder than a whisper. "I never meant to—meant to hurt you, that day."

Erik smiles but Charles doesn't see it, and he remembers Cuba and Charles and painpainpain in his back, in his mind, his hands stretching out against his will and his legs shuddering and the crack of Moira's gun and finally nothing as he lay in the sand and couldn't feel his legs.

"It was an accident," Charles says quietly, pleadingly.

Erik nods once. "I know, my friend," he says, and then he flicks a finger and wheels himself out the door.

* * *

><p><em>I am Time<em>_**  
><strong>__And pass through the World,__**  
><strong>__Looking at stars and ashes,__**  
><strong>__At clouds and deserts,__**  
><strong>__At birds and leaves,__**  
><strong>__At people and horizons._

* * *

><p>ii. <em>new york city, september 2001<em>

His mouth tastes like sleep and cotton balls. Erik is pressed against him, steady and warm, and Charles smiles and listens to the soft pulse of his heart against his shoulder. Their bed is soft and comfortable and Charles really, really doesn't want to leave, but the alarm clock is shrieking now and Erik's starting to stir, and if Charles doesn't shut it off in the next five seconds Erik will destroy it and they'll be out ten bucks _again. _

He hits the alarm and the shrill noise stops. Erik makes a contented sound and burrows deeper into the folds of the bed, tugging the blanket from Charles.

"Hey," Charles groans, missing the warmth and the _tickticktick _of Erik's heart. He gropes blindly for either and ends up with his hand pressed flat against the curve of Erik's spine, feeling the rise and fall as he breathes.

He smiles.

"Hey," he says again, clearer and softer this time. He gives his lover a shake and Erik kicks out sleepily, his foot thunking lazily against Charles' thigh. "Ouch."

Erik makes a sound that's somewhere between a yawn and a laugh, and Charles shoves him hard enough to roll him off the edge of the bed.

Erik lands in a tangle of long limbs and guttural curses, aiming a glare at Charles' head. Charles laughs and leans over the edge of the bed.

"You kicked me," he says teasingly.

Erik mutters something derogatory in German before crawling back into bed, gripping the mattress tight. "Go 'way," he says thickly, somewhere between English and four other languages.

Charles rolls his eyes. "We have work," he says. "C'mon, we're going to be late."

Erik growls. "Not working today," he mumbles. "I think. What day is it?"

Charles laughs and starts to get out of bed, leaving the warmth in favor of finding a shirt and tie. "Er," he says. "It's Tuesday, Erik. September eleventh."

"Mmm," says Erik happily. "Good. Not on shift today."

Charles steps over Erik's FDNY uniform in a quest to find his pants.

He gets his clothes on and grooms himself into proper order, becoming every inch the young businessman. Erik watches him lazily from the bed and smiles gently, eyes half-closed.

"I love you," he says suddenly, more lucidly than he's been all morning. His eyes are blue and solemn.

Charles smiles. "Love you too," he says, meaning it, tightening his tie. "I'll be home around five if you want to get dinner this time."

Erik buries his head into the pillow. "You might get cold Chinese if I can muster up the energy to call the place."

Charles laughs. "I look forward to it," he says, grabbing his briefcase and his keycard. They're tightening security at the Trade Center these days, for some reason. It makes things annoying, and Charles has forgotten his damn card so many times it's become a problem.

Erik waves a hand, still buried in the pillow. "Don't forget your phone," he calls. "I'll call you around lunch time, if I'm awake."

Charles laughs and grabs his cell phone, already halfway out the door when Erik stops him and kisses him messily, openly, tangling his hands in Charles' neat hair. His eyes, when they break apart, and blue and sharp and serious.

"Be careful," he says. "Alright?"

Charles smiles and kisses him again, gently this time, the lightest brush against the corner of his mouth. "I promise," he says. "I'll see you at five for cold Chinese."

"It's a date," Erik rumbles, kissing Charles' forehead and retreating back into his warm nest. "Don't be late," he shouts as Charles opens the door.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Charles shouts back, laughing, and then he steps out into the hall and closes the door behind him.

* * *

><p><em>I am a traveller in my soul<br>__And pass above the World,_

* * *

><p>iii. <em>cuba, october 1962<em>

His mouth tastes like blood and fear. Shaw's body is crumpled between him and the other mutant and the plane is wrecked behind him, all Hank's hard work twisted into useless scrap. The air tastes like hot metal and sand and newly-formed glass and down the island he can hear the kids fighting with Shaw's people furiously, bravely.

_They're kids, _he thinks desperately, taking his eyes off the mutant for the briefest of seconds to see Sean dive through the sky, chased by Angel. _They're not ready for war. God, they're not ready for war at all. _

Shaw himself is dead, his eyes wide, a coin shoved through his skull and out the other side.

His killer stands opposite Charles and watches him with sharp blue eyes, head tilted slightly to the side and fingers outstretched, lifting metal into the air like it weighs nothing.

His name is Erik Lehnsherr, he can control metal, and until about five minutes ago he was Charles' enemy, working with Shaw to bring about nuclear war.

And then he took off Shaw's damn helmet and, while Charles had him paralyzed, threw a coin through his brain.

Charles had let go of the man in time to avoid telepathic backlash, of course, and he's rather glad he did so because he's pretty sure it _hurts _to have someone drive a coin into your brain_. _

Erik Lehnsherr watches Charles calmly, metal spinning at his fingertips, and the helmet lies abandoned between them. His mind is surprisingly open—_doesn't he know what I can do,_ Charles thinks, _doesn't he know that I could kill him, if I wanted to?_

Charles licks his lips, trying to get the sand and fear out of his mouth. It is this man who brought their plane down, who threw out his hand casually and dragged it from the air. It is this man who shoved a coin through Shaw's brain easily, without a second thought, and watched him die in the sand. This man is a killer—he ripped the CIA in two. This man is dangerous, and now Charles doesn't know to whom he is loyal or why.

He is dangerous. Charles should kill this man, or at least put him to sleep, do _something _so he doesn't hurt the kids.

He doesn't want to, though. He wants to, to—

"Are you going to read my mind, telepath?" Lehnsherr's voice is deep and lilting, German, Charles thinks, and a quick brush against his mind shows war and gray and Shaw, Shawshawshawknivesfearpain_Mama _and Charles snatches his mind away as though burned.

"What do you want?" Charles asks warily, holding himself in. He can feel the sharp bubble of Lehnsherr's mind, hot and strong like refolded steel, _dangerous, _sharpened to razored edges.

Lehnsherr shrugs. "I don't know," he says, and his mind is the color of honesty. He feels no guilt over what he's done, no regret, no shame, but he's not lying. He genuinely doesn't know what he wants now. He's calm and controlled but Charles can detect the slightest _shiver _in him, a core-deep shake only a telepath could find, and it's enough to make him stand up straight.

"Why did you kill Shaw?"

Another shrug and it might just be Charles' imagination but he thinks he sees the spinning metal drop a few centimeters.

"You're not going to read my mind?" Lehnsherr's curious now and the metal definitely drops another centimeter or two.

"Not unless I have to," Charles says. "I'm not like your telepath."

Lehnsherr laughs sharp and sudden and Charles can see his teeth gleam. "You are adorable," he says. "Of course you're not. You're too soft to be Emma Frost."

Charles blinks (at the adorable comment first, sadly). "What?"

Lehnsherr grins again and the metal turns lazily in the air, ready to skewer Charles at a moment's notice. "You're too soft," he repeats. "I am your enemy, telepath. I could kill you right now, and you don't seem to want to do anything about it."

"I'm not soft," Charles says, mildly insulted. "And I don't think you are my enemy."

"No?" Lehnsherr arches an eyebrow and gestures around him, at Shaw's body, Hank's ruined plane. Images of the CIA building ripping apart around him and the agents shouting as metal speared their bodies flood Charles' mind—it takes most of his control to shut them out and focus on the shiver in Lehnsherr's mind, the tiny voice that's growing louder and louder by the second.

"No," says Charles. "You would have killed me by now."

Lehnsherr tips his head. "True," he agrees, almost heavily. "Are you going to hurt me, telepath?"

"No," Charles says. "I should, but I won't."

"Any why not?"

Charles looks him straight in the eye and prays he's not wrong. "Why did you kill Shaw?"

Lehnsherr looks back for a long, hot, metal-heavy moment, and then he drops his hands and his makeshift weapons fall almost soundlessly into the brilliant sand. "He killed my mother," he says simply. "So I killed him."

Charles nods. "Did it bring you peace?" He asks, gently, carefully, like he's handling a bomb or a wounded tiger.

"We'll see," Lehnsherr says, and he shrugs.

The shiver inside his head is growing brighter, lighter, and gray and death and Shaw seem to fall back, and Charles watches them slowly fall asleep in Lehnsherr's mind and he makes a choice.

"Are you my enemy?"

Lehnsherr closes his eyes for a second and his mind shouts now, loud, jubilant, _free_—

"No," he says, and Charles beams at him.

"I'm Charles Xavier," he says, stepping carefully around Shaw's body to take Lehnsherr's hand. "Nice to meet you, Erik Lehnsherr."

Lehnsherr is staring at him like he's lost his mind but Charles doesn't really care. He's grinning like a maniac and the voice in Lehnsherr's—Erik's—head is louder and louder and Charles can't deny it anymore. Erik's hand is warm in his and he doesn't pull away, physically or with his mind, and Charles takes that as a very good sign.

"How would you like to be a teacher?" Charles asks, and the look on Erik's face is _priceless. _

"Alright," he says, and he doesn't let go of Charles' hand.

* * *

><p><em>Seeing and hearing<em>_**  
><strong>__Dreams and songs,__**  
><strong>__Agonies and hopes,__**  
><strong>__Praises and despairs,__**  
><strong>__Cradles and tears,__**  
><strong>__Coffins and smiles._

* * *

><p>iv. <em>normandy, june 1944<em>

His mouth tastes like saltwater and prayers. The ocean is mercifully louder than the gunfire now, the sound of waves drowning out the sounds of dying. He can feel them though, going one at a time, dark holes ripping through the fabric of minds with a scream and then cold silence.

Charles wants to throw up. The beach is becoming still, the Jerrys thrown back, the gunshots falling slowly silent one by one.

Everything is destroyed. No matter where he looks there's blood and sand and dead bodies twisted and bared, and his mind is a patchwork of gaping holes and pulsing emotions. Red anger, black fear, white shock, Charles can see them all and they paint the world behind his eyes, and he's got a litany of _'mgoingtoDIE_ screaming inside his ears where he can't block it out.  
>He can't stand it.<p>

He staggers in the loose sand, slipping, ready to fall, and the gun in his hands is almost as heavy as the thousands of thoughts crashing inside his brain.

(He can still see them, the Germans he's killed, their eyes wide with shock and fear as his bullets tore their thoughts from their brains.)

He can't think, can't _focus_—

It hasn't been this bad since he was a child.

"It's alright, Charles." Erik is there suddenly, warm, steady, bloodstained, _living_ Erik, and Charles turns to him so fast he nearly does fall.

"Erik," Charles says, and then he sees the blood all over Erik and his heart runs cold. He dives into his friend's—more than that, so much more than that, but what they are is unnamable—mind frantically and Erik lets him patiently, and Charles sees all the dead, dying soldiers Erik worked on, dragged metal shards and bullets and wire from, and he realizes that the blood isn't Erik's own and he sags in relief.

With Erik there the other voices aren't quite so loud, so unmanagable, and Charles brings himself back, compartmentalizes the voices, shuts out the sounds of terror and pain and death.

"_Alles ist gut,_my friend," Erik says, and Charles sees the fear dark in his eyes. "I am fine. Are you hurt?"

"No," he murmurs, and watches the fear fade a little. His heart twists. Erik is fearless. Erik is strong. Erik is the metal he controls, bendable but not breakable, and to see him afraid is terrible.

Charles wants to kiss him right here on the beach, wants to run his hands over Erik's body and physically check for injuries, to know with absolute certainty that Erik is fine, he is fine, they're both fine, to kiss the fear out of Erik and to let Erik kiss the death out of him until it doesn't even _matter_ anymore—

But they're soldiers in the middle of a warzone. They don't have _time_ for these things. They have time to fight and kill and keep each other alive and that's it, no matter what Charles wants—_skin hands teeth gleaming in the light eyes hot and wild and deep and_—they don't have time for it.

Charles must go and kill and press ahead and Erik must go and kill and pull metal from his comrades while he tries frantically to stop them from bleeding to death. Inconsequential things like love don't matter.

"I have to go," Erik says softly, gently. He doesn't want to touch Charles with his bloody hands and Charles couldn't really care less. "I'll see you tonight?"

Charles nods. "Of course," he says. "Be safe."

"Always." And Erik is gone again, rushing off to save as many of their comrades as he can.

Charles lets his eyes slide closed and remembers the way he looks, the way he smells, and the voices howling at his mind are quiet enough that he can control them. The battle is definitely over now. All the Germans have been driven away or killed and the only ones dying now are the wounded because there are too many of them for the medics, even the mutant ones like Erik, to reach in time.

Charles reaches out to as many as he can, finds the ones in too much pain or too far gone to save, and he tells them to go to sleep.

They do and more holes open up in his mind, though these are less ragged and painful. Out beyond the beach and the Allies' hard-won victory he feels the Germans suffer through similar pains, and he tells them to sleep too, and closes his eyes as they do.

He wants to go home. The only thing good about this war is Erik (and even that's changing, though he doesn't want to, because Erik is hardening and closing himself off against all this death and Charles, by default of his power, cannot) and he hopes it will be enough to get him through this.

All around him, what's left of the army gathers itself, first in twos and threes and then in larger clumps, leaning against each other for support, limping away from the red-washed waves. They cling to each other and Charles wants to go to them, but he won't.

He follows them, though, through the battlefield, picking his way around the dead, head bowed, gun heavy. Night will fall in a few hours and Erik will come back. He just has to hold control until then. He can do that. He's been doing that for years.

The ragged army crests a hill and settles down in the abandon shells of the German defenses. They're tired, bleeding, but they _won_, and the bright yellow thread of joy moves underneath all the red and black and white.

Charles closes his eyes and slumps into the sand, letting the yellow wash over him. He hangs on to the thread of relief because it will get him through this, and he falls asleep in the sand and doesn't feel it when Erik settles beside him and falls asleep himself almost instantly, but his dreams that night are quieter because Erik is there, and when he wakes up at three in the morning Erik is gone, kneeling at a soldier's side, dragging bullets from his guts and murmuring to him gently, soothingly, in German.

The soldier, despite Erik's efforts, dies a few minutes later, and Charles sees Erik slip the bloodstained bullets into his pocket.

When Erik comes back and hunkers down next to him again, Charles doesn't mention it. He wordlessly grasps Erik's hands, silent and steady and gentle, and Erik bows his head, and they stay like that for hours.

"I love you," Erik gasps, and his eyes are wide and blown and his hands are crusted with dried blood. Not his own, never his own, but the sight makes Charles' heart stutter just the same, and he's fiercely grateful that Erik can control metal because he'd be twice dead by now, at least.

"I love you," Erik says again, determined, terrified, insistent. Gunfire explodes three hundred feet away and Charles flinches; three months in and he's not used to this, he can't handle this. They're hiding out in some godawful French town and the Jerrys are giving it everything they've got, and there are so many dying every time Charles blinks he feels another go away.

But Erik, Erik is _alive_. He's splattered with mud and blood and his mind is sharper than knives and wound tight, but _he's alive_, and right now that's all that matters.

"Oh my god," says Charles, and he grabs Erik's face in his hands and he doesn't let go. "I heard—I heard—" (screaming gunshots terror rolling off Erik's unit in waves, minds guttering out crying _ohpleasenononoIdon'twanttodie—_)

"I'm fine," Erik murmurs and he's so close the smell of blood and metal stings, but to Charles is the sweetest scent in the world because for a second there, he thought Erik was _dead_—

"You're alive," Charles breathes, and he doesn't let go. "You're alive, Erik, I thought you were dead."

"Stopped the bullet." Erik unfolds his palm and a gleaming metal killer there, small and harmless-looking, and Charles is seized by the violent urge to throw it far away.

"Jesus," Charles hisses, trying to block out every other thread of ragefearpain but Erik's, focusing on only Erik, always Erik, the rest of them don't even _matter_—

"_Alles ist gut,_" Erik murmurs gently. He's still shaking though, tiny little shudders that ripple from his shoulders down through his arms, his fingers. "_Alles ist gut._"

Charles shakes and wants to, to—

"Stay with me," he says. "After all this is over, I want you to stay with me, do you understand? You're coming home with me to Westchester."

Erik looks at him for a second, just a fragile second, and there's a thought in his head that's quick and dark and terrible and doesn't even bear thinking about, and then it's gone and Erik smiles widely.

"Alright," he says and his mind goes almost entirely yellow with joylove_relief. _"Alright, Charles."

Charles laughs and the sounds of gunfire don't scare him when they explode even closer than before. He leans into Erik, foreheads touching, and doesn't let go of his face.

Erik's bloody hands are wrapped tight around his wrists and the bullet digs into his skin, colder than it should be, but Charles doesn't care.

Erik laughs and he feels the sound vibrate through his hands, and Charles laughs to, quick, victorious, because it's going to be _okay_, all of it, this, them, the whole fucking _war_, and Erik presses a kiss to his forehead.

"Here, really?" Charles murmurs, still laughing, and he kisses Erik back quickly, fiercely, and Erik laughs.

"No better place," he says, and smiles.

"Come on," says Charles. "We better get out of here before the Jerrys show up."

"Alright," Erik agrees, and they leap over a crumbling, collapsing wall and dart back towards their people, laughing and grinning like madmen.

_You better not die on me, Erik, _Charles thinks to himself, still holding on to that yellow thread bright in Erik's mind. _I won't let you. _

Erik pulls metal up with him as he runs, bullets and bits of fence and shrapnel, and he throws them at the advancing Jerrys and laughs with the rush of power.

Charles can't help but laugh too, running alongside his friend—still so much more than that, _always_ so much more than that, but impossible to name, to even identify—and he holds on to that tenuous, brilliant yellow thread that will get them through the war.

He's so wrapped up in this yellow thread that he doesn't see Erik stop laughing, see his eyes widen and his hand stretch out too late, much too late, too late to stop it completely, only to slow and _pray—_

Charles is still laughing when the bullet slams into his back.

* * *

><p><em>I am a traveller in my soul,<em>_**  
><strong>__And free from all belongings:_

* * *

><p>v. <em>unidentified location, february 1960<em>

His mouth tastes like ice and old blood. The light is dim and watery and he can see dark spots smeared all over the floor, some of them his, others not. There's no heater in this cell and the air is so cold he can see his breath frosting in front of him. He's a mess of wounds and bruises and track marks and he hurts all over, and he doesn't know where he is.

A facility somewhere, he's sure, or a military base, probably in the Northern Hemisphere, probably somewhere in or close to Canada, but even that's guessing. All he knows is that it's cold and dark and made of smooth stone, and there are dozens of scientists here and dozens more prisoners—mutants—like himself.

And they know what they're doing. His cell has no metal, nothing he can use to break out. They know what they're doing but they're inexperienced, or perhaps overconfident; there are metal fixtures—screws, hinges, a door frame—two hundred feet away. If he concentrated he could move them, kill with them, free himself, but he's so _tired. _All he wants to do right now is sleep.

Rationally, he knows that it's a combination of pain, numbing cold, and shock that's making him this tired. They drew at least three pints of blood today too; that probably has something to do with the weakness in his limbs, the cloud over his eyes.

Damn scientists.

He's definitely going to enjoy killing them.

"I wouldn't, if I were you." The sudden comment from his cellmate (who, so far, hasn't said a word) startles Erik; he jerked up off the floor into a crouch, ignoring the sudden screaming pain all over as he moved.

His cellmate raised his hands soothingly and offered a lopsided grin, pausing for a second to shove the scruffy hair out of his eyes.

"So you can talk," Erik murmurs, still coiled defensively. The metal two hundred feet away sings to him, calling out; he could have it at his side in seconds.

"Relax, friend," says his cellmate. His voice is soft and British and slightly hoarse from disuse. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm on your side."

"You're a mutant?" Erik puts his hands down warily and doesn't grab at the metal, just keeps it within easy reach if he needs it.

His cellmate rolls up his tattered sleeve; there stamped into his right arm is a set of angry red numbers, 24601, and both sets on Erik's arms tingle sharply.

He's definitely going to kill these scientists.

The mutant smiles again and lets his sleeve fall back over the marks. "You're sensitive about yours, huh?"

Erik pushes up his own sleeve and shows his angry, new red numbers—76493—and glares at the other defiantly.

His cellmate shakes his head. "Not those," he says. "Your other ones. The ones you got from Auschwitz."

Erik reflexively rubs his left arm against his leg and barely stops himself from outright charging his cellmate. "What are you, a telepath?"

The mutant smiles again. "Yes," he says. "And you're the one who controls metal, the one the guards are afraid of."

Erik raises an eyebrow. "The guards are afraid of me, _telepath_?"

The mutant nods. "They've seen your tattoo, and your scars. They know what you do—hunting Nazis, that is, quite a noble pursuit though not my cup of tea—and they're afraid of you."

"They should be," Erik says lowly, eyeing the other. He's not convinced this man is a mutant—where are his scars, his track marks, his wounds and his bruises and his angry, harsh eyes? He's a little rumpled, sure, but not beaten, not angry. "I'm going to kill them."

His cellmate shakes his head. "Not the best idea, Erik," he says, almost kindly.

Erik bares his teeth and reaches for the metal again. "Don't call me that."

"What, Erik? It's your name, isn't it? Personally I like it better than what the other mutants call you. Magneto is a comic book character's name, my friend, not a person's."

Erik goes rigid. "How do you know that name?"

The man taps his temple. "I told you, Erik, I'm a telepath. You don't believe me?"

"You don't look like the rest of us."

"Angry, you mean. Battle-scarred, you mean."

Erik nods and tugs lightly at a screw in a door down the hall.

His companion lifts up the hem of his shirt gingerly and Erik sees the bruising, similar to one he has across his rips, purple and green and swollen. It looks like a footprint; Erik should know, he's got a couple himself. There are scars too, pink and shiny and new, and even the blue circular bruises of needles and IV lines.

_Believe me now? _Says the man, _inside _Erik's head, and he starts again and nearly yanks that screw out completely. _I'm like you. _

"Alright," says Erik, watching the mutant sharply now. "What do you want, telepath?"

The telepath smiles. "Same thing as you, of course. I want to escape."

Erik's eyebrow, if possible, rises even farther. "You, escape?" He wants to laugh and bites down on the sound to stop it from bubbling out.

"What's so funny?" The other mutant looks mildly offended, his eyes wide and vivid and blue.

"You're not a killer," Erik says. "I know killers, and you're not one of them."

"What does it matter if I'm a killer or not?" The telepath's rather adorable, actually, and Erik firmly tramples that thought before it can get to said telepath.

"_They_ are killers," Erik says, gesturing out at the hallway. "_They _will do whatever is necessary to stay alive, even if it means putting a bullet in your head." He pulls harder at the screw, yanking it firmly.

The telepath shakes his head. "Not all of them," he argues. "There's one scientist who has a mutant nephew; he doesn't want to hurt us. He wants to understand us."

Erik snorts. "Sure, telepath. Keeping telling yourself that when they're shoving needles into your brain."

The other mutant tilts his head to the side, considering. "So I can't escape because I'm not willing to do whatever it takes?"

"Pretty much." Erik tugs at the screw harder, demanding it, and finally, _finally_, it gives way, breaking out of the door down the hall and shooting towards him. It hits the stone outside his cell with an audible clang and starts to bore through it.

The mutant smiles again, wide and disarming and Erik almost drops the damned screw. "You are, though. You'll do what it takes."

Erik stares openly now, surprised. "Are you propositioning me, telepath?"

"I think I am," says the mutant. "And please, call me Charles."

"Charles," Erik says.

The screw bursts from the stone wall and clatters at Erik's feet, beat-up from its journey but _there_, gleaming, silver, sharp.

Charles looks at it, then at Erik, and he smiles widely and something kicks a bit, just a tiny little bit, in Erik's sore, bruised chest.

Charles holds out his hand and his eyes are brilliant blue. "Shall we?" He asks, and gestures to the door.

Erik looks at his hand, the screw, and Charles. "We shall," he says, and then he takes Charles' hand and throws the screw with all his might into the door.

* * *

><p><em>Nowhere I belong,<br>I am Time,  
>I am Freedom.<em>

* * *

><p>i. <em>langley,april 2002<em>

His mouth tastes like toothpaste and stale air. The guards flank him, two on each side, and he smiles bitterly because if he wanted to he could destroy them, make them sleep, make them do anything he wanted them to do.

But he won't, because that's not how he's going to do this. The anti-mutant movement is growing stronger and more vocal everyday. Other mutants see this and react with increasing violence and hostility. They are on the brink of a war and Charles is not sure either side can survive it. He has children, millions and millions of children all over the world, scared children, lost children, and they need him. He will protect them, and the humans, even if it means this, means tolerating their hate, their fear, their anger towards and entire people for what a few have done.

They move down the hallways and into a white, beeping room and stop at the metal detector. Charles is clean. He's always clean. He will never bring metal here, not after all that's happened. He helped them build this prison, this cage, and he will not help its occupant escape, no matter how much he sometimes (alone, at night, staring at the newspapers and television reports and the violence against his people, thinking _perhaps Erik is _right) wants to.

The detector beeps and the guard wheels him in across the expanding plastic hallway. The air is dry and stale—Charles wonders why that is. It reminds him of a desert, almost, someplace hopeless and barren and the irony is so strong he can taste it in the back of his throat.

The tunnel stops moving with an audible snap and Charles feels the prisoner's mind stir, turning towards the door.

Charles takes a moment—just a heartbeat, really, or even less than that—to still his face, calm his mind. Not that it matters. Erik always knows what he's thinking.

The door swishes open and Magneto turns. "Charles Xavier," he says. "Have you come to rescue me?"

Charles irons his face into a smile and wheels himself forward, breaking away from the guard. "Not this time, old friend."

"Pity." Erik heaves a sigh and tucks the book he's reading—_Grapes of Wrath—_away. "I'm becoming rather bored."

"You should be grateful, _freak_," the guard—Mitchell, Charles thinks his name is—snarls. "If it were up to me—"

"Mr. Laurio," Magneto says, and he's flashing a look that would have Charles seriously worried for Mr. Laurio's safety, were there any metal around. "We all know what would happen if it was all up to you. However, it is not, and I do believe it is time for you to leave us."

Laurio _boils_, hate and anger and disgust rolling off his mind in waves. Magneto glares back and his fingers twitch. Charles reads a dozen confrontations between the two, a dozen conflicts and snide remarks that invariably end with Laurio's fist in Erik's face and Erik bleeding on the floor and intervenes, quickly and gentling nudging Mr. Laurio in the direction of the plastic hallway and a nice cup of coffee.

"You're going to get yourself in trouble if you keep goading him, Erik" he warns, turning to the prisoner.

Magneto's anger fades away as Laurio retreats and Erik comes back in little bits and pieces. His fingers stop twitching and the tremors in his left hand stop almost entirely.

"Boredom, Charles, makes me stupid."

"Yes, well, that's why you have me."

Erik pulls out the plastic chessboard and begins to set it up, pointedly not looking at Charles. "I would be lost without you," he says dryly. "Black or white?"

"Black, this time."

Erik turns the board and makes the first move—pawn to F4—and rests on his elbows, his eyes sharp and pale and serious.

Charles moves a pawn as well, watching, waiting. To his surprise he finds that Erik's almost _inviting, _the smooth, sharp edges of his mind grazing against Charles' thoughts lightly, gently—but he doesn't dive in, not yet.

"You can't leave Laurio alone, can you?" Charles asks instead. Erik moves another pawn.

"He annoys me."

"So you make him miserable as frequently as you can?" Charles moves his knight this time.

Erik grins quickly, a sharp flash of teeth, before moving one of his own knights. "Yes."

"And to think I felt sorry about your bruises."

Erik huffs a laugh and runs a hand through his hair, not looking at Charles at all. "You've always been a bleeding heart."

Charles lets the conversation fall to the side as he moves a rook, trying to box in one of Erik's bishops. Erik sees this and shifts one of his knights, taking a pawn. Charles counters by taking one of his rooks and loses a knight in the process.

Within half an hour Charles is down to two pawns, his king, a bishop, and both rooks. Erik has three pawns, his king and queen, a bishop, and a knight. The tension has drained out of both of them completely and there's a smile tugging at Erik's mouth, a content curl of warmth softening the razored edges of his mind.

They haven't been like this in decades.

"I had a dream," Charles says, breaking the silence and moving his bishop forward.

"Oh?" Erik moves a pawn, clearly intending to lose it. "Another one about us?"

"Yes."

"And what were we this time? Soldiers? Firemen? Experiments?"

Charles laughs. "No," he says, remembering all the other dreams, the hundreds and thousands of dreams he's had for the last thirty-eight years, and he takes the pawn. "Not this time. This time, we were ourselves." _Just ourselves, _he wants to say, but doesn't.

Erik moves his bishop and it's impossible to tell what he's thinking from his face, though Charles tries anyway. "Was it a good dream?"

"Yes," says Charles softly. "It was a very good dream."

_You were there, _he wants to say. _And I was there, and there was sand everywhere, and the sky was hot and blue. I lay in the sand and you held me, and you were crying and holding the sky up with both hands. _

"_It's alright," I wanted to tell you. "You don't have to do this alone anymore." _

_You looked down at me and blinked, and then you let go everything you were holding and laughed when it didn't come falling down. _

"_I told you," I said, and you laughed and kissed my forehead. "Stay with me?"_

"_Always," you whispered. "Always, always, always." _

Erik smiles a little and lets Charles take another of his pawns. The game's ending now, drawing to its close. Erik will win this time; he's got the advantage, damn him, and Charles knows it.

Charles quietly lays down his king and Erik grins, victorious.

"My old friend," says Charles, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. "Where do we go from here?"

Erik is quiet, for once; he doesn't snarl or growl or swear to escape and wreak havoc on those who imprisoned him. His mind is softer, warmer, than it's been since the beach and Charles hears the faint sound of the pieces clinking on the board.

Erik's mind nudges his gently, cautiously.

Charles doesn't breathe and opens his mind.

_We play another game, _Erik says, and oh he's warm and familiar and _there _again and his thoughts tangle into Charles' easily, naturally, and he's so happy he almost hurts. _I want to see if I can beat you again. _

A smile tugs Charles' lips. _I doubt it, old friend_. _Black or white?_

_Black._

_Excellent. _

And they begin again.

(_"Stay with me," Charles whispered on a beach that could have existed. The air is hot and blue and alive with myriad fragments of molten glass, each one a world, a life, a dream. _

_Erik looks down at him and smiles. "Always," he says. "Always, always, always."_)

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading!<p>

-zihna


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